


the earth laughs in flowers

by QUADZER0



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, One-Shot, Reposted and Edited, awkward first meetings, garden au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 10:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12079623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QUADZER0/pseuds/QUADZER0
Summary: Dean is a man who knows a thing or two about botany.





	the earth laughs in flowers

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: i went back and read through the chapters i still have up on ff.net and cringed at my tense changes+inconsistencies. there was 7 chapters of this bad boy before i realized my magic only happened in the first, so here it is, in all its edited glory.
> 
> it’s probably still bad anyway. but uh. yeah.

The moving truck had been parked in _his_ driveway for hours.

Dean hardly used it aside from the storage, and even then, he always went in through the house anyway.

He agreed to let them park it there out of courtesy for his new neighbor—act decent as a way of welcoming. Hopefully that would be enough as a means, and he wouldn’t have to go out of his way with something like bringing over cookies or letting him borrow some salt or some shit.

The only thing that was bothering him, however, was the smallest amount of care the movers had for his curbside plants. They’ve been thoroughly stomped down—on purpose or otherwise, it truly didn’t matter. Little apology on their behalf offered except a sheepish look on the face of his new neighbor. It’s been a while since he had one of those, the last family living there having moved out because of how ‘eccentric’ they thought he was.

Their kids were just as bothersome as the movers regarding his plants, it was only fair he got to chastise the parents for the destruction that was caused by their children’s hands.

The real estate sign came up only a month later after back and forth arguments, Dean being the one to stay on account of his nursery.

It was only fair.

Dean continued to stare out his front window watching boxes upon boxes being moved into the new place. He’d finally noticed new neighbor glancing over his way from time to time, looking as if he should introduce himself or vice versa, but never really did. Dean hadn’t particularly minded that either, finding the comfort in his own home preferable to running the risk of exploding at the neglectful movers if he were to step outside to mingle.

When his eyes dart back out the window, said neighbor seems to have disappeared, and the feeling of being watched vanished as well. There was minor contemplation on his end whether to sit around and wait for everything to be all said and done or go out back and tend to the plants there.

He’s about to come to a decision until his doorbell rings and his mouth curls into a frown.

There is only one person to expect behind the door when Dean goes to open it; his neighbor is there—same height, same sheepish look from before—clad in jeans and a plain white shirt, hair tied up in a loose ponytail, trimmed beard—decorated tattoo sleeve on his arm—

“Hey.”

The other man interrupts his thoughts— his way of sizing him up through means of taking in every detail. Dean’s eyes fall a little past him— wills himself to look directly into his eyes (grey, he notes again).

“Hey,” is offered back, tone no less scathing than it were welcoming—practically indifferent—and that makes the man shift in place. Dean takes that in, stores that in the back of his mind for some other day, to know that this guy—as intimidating as he looks—may not really be all that intimidating.

“Name’s Dean. Welcome to the neighborhood.” It’s not much, but it’s customary and should stand to get the point across. He’s not in the business of making friends, this neighbor not exempt from that at all. Dean thinks it would be good to squash it before it even begins, let neighbor know their chances of being best friends are slim to none.

“Dean.” His name said almost breathlessly and Dean’s eyes fly wide open because he can’t recall Roman moving to lift a box or move a dresser or couch or stepping on his plants or anything. And if his eyes weren’t the true giveaway, then his gaping mouth was—the man visibly jumping and holding out a hand in a way as if he were offering an apology, “I’m Roman. It’s nice to meet you!”

Little can be said in the same manner, but Dean offers him his hand anyway, gives one firm shake and pulls away.

Some people called _him_ weird, but neighbor—or rather—Roman—might be willing to take that away from him. He’s idly standing there now, looking at Dean expectantly like he had something else to say or if he’s waiting for Dean to.

“Right. Roman?”

“Yes?” It’s said a little too quickly and that brings Dean’s frown back again.

“I hope the move goes well. Try and tell your guys to avoid what’s left of my flowers.” He doesn’t so much as wait for a response in favor of closing the door, wanting to avoid the inevitable, prolonged, and unwanted conversation with this Roman person.

Yes, they’re neighbors—and that’s all it should be.

“Um! Dean!” A knock soon following those muffled words and Dean’s head snaps back toward the door with a quickness that makes his neck strain for a good few seconds. Begrudgingly, he turns the knob and swings the thing back open, eyes blinking once—twice—questioningly.

“Dean,” There he goes again, a smile accompanying his name this time around, and the sight makes him sick to his stomach.

Why won’t he leave?

“I wanted to ask if you wanted to go get dinner tonight?”

The double-take he makes has Roman taking a cautionary step backwards, holding up his hands defensively. “If—if you’re not, um—I just—was just asking. Appliances won’t be here until tomorrow afternoon and I don’t really know this town all that well. Figured we might get to know each other too, because we’re neighbors.” If there was a look to show a slap to the face instead of an actual slap to the face, Roman’s expression sure did a good job of emulating that. That last word of his explanation hanging like he didn’t mean it entirely, which makes the pain in Dean’s stomach twist and increase in its intensity.

He doesn’t know Roman, doesn’t want to know Roman, and yet here he is on his doorstep, worming his way into his life as bad as the literal insects in his garden. There’s a silence looming between them now, Dean unable and almost unwilling to come up with an answer that each of them might find disagreeable. It’s unfair to be rude to Roman, but it’s also unfair to himself if he so chooses to agree to this outing.

After a minute or so without a response, Roman seems to take the hint. He nervously laughs off the lack of any word back and rubs at his neck.

He looks crestfallen and Dean can’t lie feeling bad about it.

His mouth stays shut anyhow as Roman hops off his front porch, an aura of regret and embarrassment following him on his way. It takes Dean two or three of Roman’s steps toward his own home as he calls out to him.

“Roman!”

Roman stops but he doesn’t turn his head and perhaps Dean deserved it for not even gracing him with a response, but— “If you want, you can come over for dinner. I was planning to cook anyway, so …”

When he looks back up at the other man, he’s facing the house again—smile stretching bright and wide across his face and hopefully the distance does well to hide the blush threatening his own cheeks.

“I would have been willing to pay for the both of us if we went out somewhere—but—thanks for being so generous. What time should I come over?”

Dean’s fingers tap nervously against the frame of the door, foot rhythmically against the threshold, “Around 7:00 should be good. You got any allergies?”

Roman shakes his head, smile still plastered on his face, “Not at all. See you then!” He leaves then, disappears into his own house now, the movers having finished their jobs and pulling their truck out of Dean’s driveway too.

He has a few hours to dig up the corpses of his fallen plants and sow the new soil, but he can’t shake the uneasy feeling bubbling up inside him. Dean talked himself into wanting to do nothing with the new neighbor, now suddenly, he’d invited him to dinner—and that smile? Who’s to say what the hell that meant? The way it made him feel?

It wasn’t fair.

\--

Later on that day, Dean saw Roman head out in what looked like gear for running—large headphones over his ears and a towel slung around his neck. At least he won’t have to deal with him until tonight and he could tend to what remained of his curbside appeal. Digging out the crushed _Armeria maritima_ tugged at Dean’s chest, the years put into upkeep tossed aside as easily as they were stomped on.

There was little to do but sulk, and he’d get over that at least. 

Once clearing the way, he pulls out a small package of seeds labeled _Chamaemelum nobile_ —there’s a little moment of recollection needed. Dean always did prefer using the plants’ botanical names and that made him trip up on some of the details of planting— he shrugs it off and sows them anyhow. He would just have to see until they sprouted, which would be soon according to what he could bring himself to remember. 

After an hour or so, his bucket is filled with flower remains and his curbside planter looks as empty as he’s feeling at the loss. Dean starts heading back into the house to wash up before Roman jogs up the sidewalk. There’s hope in the fact that Roman will run along past him and back to his own home, but he slows to a stop in front of Dean, who has to adjust his sun hat from up and over his eyes to look back at him. 

That same bright smile from earlier returns and Dean idly comments to himself about how the mere sight alone could probably bring the entirety of his planter back to life. He shakes the thought away though when Roman kneels beside him in the grass of his front lawn. 

“Do you do this a lot?” 

“Do what?" 

“This gardening stuff.” 

Dean shrugs. “Guy’s gotta make a living. The nursery in the back does a lot to pay off what needs to be paid off. I make ends meet. S’no big deal.” He’s doing his best to hide the pride he’s got for his craft, though he must have done a bad job considering how amused Roman looks. 

“Your flowers from earlier were really beautiful, until, well, y’know. That’s part of the reason why I knocked on your door earlier.” 

“I never heard an apology for that.” It comes out abrupt and yeah, there was no apology, only some attempt at asking him out to dinner. 

“Oh—yeah, I um … the dinner thing, was me saying sorry. It came out wrong the moment I opened my mouth.” Chuckles a bit nervously but it is not so easily returned by Dean. 

Dean doesn’t offer him any other words, stands up instead. He tilts his head back to bring his hat off his crown to hang around his neck instead. Roman mirrors his actions, headphones going around his own respectively and shoving his hands into the pockets of his shorts. 

“I wanted to ask you if you preferred beer or wine?” 

“Beer.” The answer is quick, decisive, and he begins to wonder why Roman would ask. His face must have relayed the information thusly, as Roman continued prattling on with this thought. 

“Okay, good. I could bring a case over.” With that, he runs off in the direction of his own home, leaving Dean standing there wallowing in his confusion. He still doesn’t know why Roman is so bent on being a disgustingly decent neighbor when everyone else would have just gone on with their lives. Roman has another side to his place, why is he so focused on the one that Dean is on? 

\-- 

By no means is Dean trying to impress Roman, but he does admit to going a little above and beyond with dinner. He planned on microwaving a frozen pizza for himself until he invited his neighbor over on a whim. Instead he makes a salad, tri-tip, and even bakes a few cupcakes. He starts cutting into the meat—medium rare— before his doorbell rings; can only assume who it is, so he drops everything-- makes sure to wipe off his hands on his apron to open the door.

Roman made well on his promise earlier of bringing over beer, though he had been caught looking in some other direction by the time the door swings open, Dean staring at him curiously. When Roman finally turns toward him, his mouth parts open slightly as if to say something but there are no words. Following his (grey) eyes, they flicker down to his—clothes? —before he manages an actual sentence.

“Thank you for having me over.”

Dean’s eyes narrow at that as he steps aside, untying the apron and balling it up in his hands to toss to the side later. Roman follows him inside, stands around expectantly, taking the chance to glance around and in a way, Dean feels his space being viscerally invaded.

That is most likely an exaggeration.

Without a word, he lets him into the kitchen-- motions for him to sit down at the table, soon going back to serving up dinner.

They eat in relative silence, that is, until Dean has a beer or four. It was only then that he’d loosen up, bring his walls down-- figures out that Roman isn’t all that bad of a guy to talk to. They have a lot in common—both fans of sports, especially wrestling, drinking—they like the same movies (sans Roman’s affinity for horror) and Roman doesn’t know much of gardening, but he seems interested enough when Dean starts going off about it. Their plates are abandoned at that point, Dean far more excited to pull his new ‘friend’ toward the backyard to show off his life’s work.

He hadn’t even realized he was holding Roman’s wrist in his hand as they step out onto the patio pointing out the first row of flowers. When Dean does notice, however, he quickly pulls away-- shoves it in his pocket for a lack of a better way to cover up his embarrassment. There is validity in blaming it on the beer, but he wasn’t nearly as buzzed as he could be, like alone on a usual Thursday night.

“These are nice,” Roman doesn’t comment on the hand-holding and a sigh of relief escapes Dean as he wanders up beside him.

“ _Camellia sinensis_.”

“I would have already been impressed with the regular, everyday names. You go and pull out the scientific shit.”

He grins ever so slightly, “Yeah. M’pretty good at it. Could tell you what they mean too, if you’re uh, interested in all that.” It’s difficult to mask his excitement.

“Oh really?” Roman responds, looking awfully amused.

“Try me.”

“What’s the meaning behind the ones I pointed at then? The … camellia—“

“Ya give em to someone you think is adorable.”

Roman smiles at that, ducking away before Dean has the time to notice. He makes a show at pointing out other flowers for him to name and describe.

“Alright hot shot, what about the ones right next to them? They look pretty similar … unless … they are the same.”

Dean shakes his head, “ _Dendranthema grandiflorum_. Means ‘truth’. You’d probably want to give it to someone who’s skeptical of what you might drop on em.”

They step a bit a ways from the rows of white flowers and switch it up to an area with a bit more color. Surrounded by hues of purples and pinks, Roman touches one of the flowers and nods a head towards Dean. “Mind if I pick this one?”

Dean shrugs nonchalantly, not at all paying attention to the one he’s specifically wanting to pick, “Not at all. Go ahead.” There were plenty of flowers around—one going missing isn’t that big of a deal.

A laugh bubbles out of Roman as he carefully plucks the thing. There’s an exaggerated arm movement as Roman hands the flower over to Dean. When he finally turns, Dean looks at him with shock etched all over his face once he realizes which one it is—Roman’s expression none too fazed by the act.

“Tell me what this one is.” His voice seems innocent, but seems too knowing.

Dean narrows his eyes again and takes the flower in hand anyway.

“ _Sinningia speciose_.”

“Yeah? What’s it mean?”

He swallows a lump in his throat, eyes darting to the ground, tactically avoiding the way Roman is looking at him right now. Dean can practically feel the heat all over his body—in his face—and everything feels like he’s going to explode.

He grounds out,

“It means … love at first sight.”


End file.
